


The Tragedy of the Ageless

by TheUnamazingTrashKing



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jaskier is dead I'm sorry, M/M, Multi, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnamazingTrashKing/pseuds/TheUnamazingTrashKing
Summary: A brief spin-off of the alternate ending of the ficThe Age of the Ageless
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 30
Collections: Age of the Ageless





	The Tragedy of the Ageless

**Author's Note:**

> jesswhooo commented on The Age of the Ageless and I made it a full fic I guess even tho they didn't ask <3

Yennefer woke expecting to feel the soft rise and fall of Jaskier breathing in her arms, but found there was just something cold there instead. It was warmed, but it felt more like it was taking heat than making its own, warmed by her body and Geralt’s beside it. Had Jaskier managed it wriggle his way out from between them and stuff a pillow in his place? She opened her eyes to see him but… wrong. It took a moment for the incorrectness to sink in. He wasn’t breathing. He was still, cold, colourless, and stiff. The word was at the very edge of her mind but she couldn’t even bring herself to think it.

She looked past him to Geralt. He, at least, was breathing. He looked unsettled, but at least he wasn’t still. She sat up and placed a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. Geralt shifted but didn’t wake at first. She opened her mouth as if to speak but all that came out was a choked crack. Then, whispery and scratchy, she managed to get out the word, “Geralt.” 

He stirred and woke. The situation seemed to occur to him faster than it had to her. He sat up slowly, having to pull his arm out from the stiff body pinning it down. It was strange how, even then, there was that clear instinct not to disturb him. 

She forced words past her shaking lips, “Tell me you can hear something.” 

He swallowed and shook his head, and that slow simple movement making Yennefer’s stomach lurch with the desire to be sick. She forced down the bile that wanted to rise in her throat. 

“Geralt, I-” She felt his arms wrap around her and press her into his chest. There was something about the warmth that made an energy spark in her muscles and mind. “We need to do something.” 

“I’ll go back into the town-” 

“No.” Yennefer pushed out of Geralt’s arms and stood from the bed. “I need to do something,” She paced beside the bed. “I could wake him, I’m sure, I can wake him.” 

Geralt shook his head, “Yen, don’t.” 

“I could, couldn’t I.” She’d used magic to force corpses to speak, how hard could it be to wake one, to _really_ wake one. To bring back the dead. Not some halfway bullshit either, but really bring someone back home. 

Still, when she looked to Geralt there was anger in his face. “Don’t.” His voice was soft, but still left no room for debate. “Don’t you dare. Not to him.” 

At this point, finally, the tears started to fall from her eyes. “I can’t just let him go, we just got him back he can’t just leave us again!” 

Geralt got up from the bed and held her again and she found herself gripping him. Part of her felt she might hurt him, digging in so hard, but every time she relaxed the hands holding him she was worried he might disappear too. He didn’t complain and just held her. She wasn’t sure how long they were there, but it can’t have been long because she was too aware of Jaskier -- what was Jaskier -- laying stiffly in the bed. 

Geralt whispered quietly about going to the town, getting someone to collect him and she was glad he hadn’t called him a body. He asked if she was coming but she just shook her head, staring silently at the bed… at him. She couldn’t leave. 

Geralt left and she felt cold without him. She knew it would be worse, but she couldn’t stop herself crawling back into the bed. It wasn’t the same as it had been the night before. There was no warmth or love in the wrinkles of that face. Still she ran her fingers over the skin, begging _something_ to wake him, but he laid still. 

She didn’t know how long she laid there, burning the image of Jaskier into her mind, but Geralt’s hand on her shoulder stirred her. There was someone here to collect him. To _take_ him and she shook her head quickly, reaching out and gripping him. Maybe if she’d just lay there for a little longer she could figure out how to get him back. She wasn’t ready to give him up yet, but Geralt was gently drawing her fingers away from him. She couldn’t help a soft moan, the word, “No,” barely even a word so much as just pain. 

The people of the town took Jaskier away while Geralt and Yennefer stood by the bed and held each other. Geralt had that soft comforting hold, but there was still that tragedy in his grip. Yennefer couldn’t provide him any of that, she was just holding him so he couldn’t be taken as well. That was ridiculous, because no one would be able to take Geralt, and he had no intention of going anywhere, and yet she was terrified that he might disappear -- might _leave_ \-- too. 

She watched as the people Geralt had brought in removed the body of her husband and started to pick through his things. Logically, she knew that Jaskier had a will, that he’d left things to people. Still, the image of vultures picking through all the things he had made her want to snarl and chase them off. She didn’t, instead burying her face against Geralt where she wouldn’t have to see it happen. 

When they were gone, Yennefer and Geralt finally left the bedroom. It took a lot of effort, but they couldn’t be there anymore. Every time she looked at the bed, she thought she saw him lying there, too stiff. And Geralt looked sickly. She wondered if she could smell it. He hadn’t been… well, they’d woken up early and he gone stiff but hadn’t started to smell terribly yet. Still, she knew enough about human bodies to know it would have started to smell, maybe not strongly enough for her to smell it yet, but probably enough for a witcher. 

So they left the bedroom and moved to his loungeroom. 

Yennefer’s legs started to wobble as she carried herself to the lounge they had sat at the night before to drink tea. She lowered herself onto it and felt tears falling from her eyes again. Her face was wet, she’d been crying for a while, but it was like she couldn’t quite feel it properly. 

Geralt stood over her with, his eyes dry but cast down. She knew he wouldn’t cry. He couldn’t, physically, but she thought he might wish he could. “I can’t be in here,” He whispered. It was a cracking sound which was struggling to force its way out of his lips. Like the air would rather choke him than be used for speech. He lifted his hand and rubbed it over his forehead, as if to relieve the headache of dehydration that comes with crying that he couldn’t really have. “The smell…” He didn’t need to say anything else. 

“I know.” Yennefer didn’t watch him step outside. She hadn’t really wanted him to leave, but she couldn’t go and she couldn’t make him stay. He would likely find some tavern (though likely not the one Jaskeir had played at the night before) and use the bath. He’d slept beside Jaskier, just as she had, and she knew that under her perfume of lilac and gooseberries would be the smell of him. Just like how underneath the smell of his own clothes would be the same thing. She wondered if he’d wash the clothes or simply throw them away. She knew she would never be able to wear hers again. She would throw hers away. Even if she could get out the smell, it wouldn’t wash out the knowledge of what it felt like to hold him against her while she wore them. 

She wasn’t sure how long she’d sat on the lounge, just staring at his walls and thinking, but the shadows had started to move through the room. She could probably sit and figure out how many hours it had been, but didn’t have the energy for that. Instead she looked around, taking in the room properly until her eyes landed on the bath. She needed a bath. She needed to wash the morning off her. She wanted a bath so deep she could rest her head well beneath the water and stay there in the dark until the agony in her chest was released, but she couldn’t get that. She stared at it, gathering the strength in her legs to carry her over, for about an hour. When finally she forced herself up, her usual grace forgotten to the slow push of her muscles, she decided to bathe in Jaskier’s bath as he would have. She performed the long, slow labour of running herself a warm bath instead of simply filling it with magic, and went through the small collection of herbs he always used. 

She sank into the water, her clothes discarded on the floor. She wasn’t in the mood to think about what she would actually do with them right now. Instead she just sank into water that smelt like all the things she would normally never use. She was more inclined to perfumes than water scented with herbs, and Geralt was a fan of neither, but Jaskeir had been a fan of both. He had always insisted they were good for his skin. Stopped him wrinkling. No, that wasn’t right. They didn’t just stop him _wrinkling_. They stopped him aging. Only, not really. 

The phantom of a tear rolled down Yennefer’s cheek, but she was so tired and lacking in hydration that it wasn’t real. It was the sensation of the movement without anything to cause it. 

And there was the scream stinging the inside of her throat. Some other version of herself, she was sure, was screaming and throwing things and wailing like a wraith. But she was still. She couldn’t move, the warm water holding her distress beneath her skin. In a way, she was glad. Too much emotion with too little control might cause her to suddenly decide to send this house up in flames. Well, maybe not quite that. She didn’t want to break any of his things. He’d seemed oddly proud of the little house, despite the simplicity of it all. 

Her mind wandered back to a question it had been pondering for so long. Ever since the day he’d left she’d asked herself what she could have done to make him stay. Geralt had always assured her that short of physically tying him to them there wasn’t anything she could have done differently. Even if she’d been nicer instead of teasing him, even if she’d actually gone with him the day he left, he’d have found some way to get away from them eventually. He may have been an idiot, but he was a smart idiot. The sort of idiot who might not know everything, but knows more than you would think. She hated thinking that there was nothing. If there was something she could have done, she might be able to figure out how to redo some of it. Sure, returning to the past wasn’t something she actually knew how to do, but she was sure it could be done. Anything could be done. Almost anything, anyway. 

Maybe she should have been more serious about using magic to stop Jaskier aging. She never had because she loved to watch him grow older. The white hairs he had grown may have made him anxious of growing older. Took it as a sign that he was becoming unable to keep up with them. But she thought it was sort of sexy on him, but now the actuality of what it had represented was hitting her. The reality of mortality. She probably could have made him as immortal as her. Utterly ageless so he would never have to leave her. But then he would have outlived Geralt, and she couldn’t see him enjoying that. 

Then the thought she’d just had hit her. Like a thick, heavy lump of hot iron dropped directly in her stomach. Geralt aged. Geralt aged and he scared and he would leave her too one day. Suddenly the water felt far too cold. 

She jumped out and used magic to dry and clothe herself (conjuring up new clothes just so she didn’t have to wear the ones she’d had on when Jaskier had passed in her arms) and raced out the front door. Roach was not there, Geralt had likely gone into the town as Yennefer had expected. She opened a portal into the town. 

The town was quieter than she expected. Despite the sun shining down there was an air of quiet surrounding everything. People were speaking in soft voices and seemed lowly. They weren’t crying, but they were holding each other, comforting each other. She saw the tavern that had finally reunited them with Jaskier and quickly turned away from it. There was another tavern nearby. If she knew Geralt, that was a more likely choice for a place to bathe and change his clothes. 

She tried not to run over there, but couldn’t stop herself rushing. She got inside and found a mournful tune being played by the bard. It didn’t help her mood. She moved straight to the bartender and asked quickly, “Have you seen the Witcher?” 

The tender didn’t smile, though it wasn’t out of hostility. “Yes, he took up a room here.” 

“Which room?” 

“He’s not in there. Left some time ago, took his swords. I think he might have been off to do that job a town over.” 

Yennefer felt her stomach drop into her feet. She thanked the bartender quickly and rushed from the room, opening a portal. 

Maybe she didn’t need to be worried. Geralt was a witcher and hunting monsters was his job and she’d had no intention of going to do his job with him before they’d woken. Now, however, things were different. He would be distracted, and Yennefer was terrified about what might happen if he were distracted. He aged. He scarred. It might be an excessive fear, but she couldn’t lose them both. Not so soon. Not ever. 

She stepped through to the other side, expecting to find a clear path that would allow her to chase down Geralt to where the job was being done. She hadn’t want to get too close. If he hadn’t disturbed the beast then she didn’t want to be the one to do it. But, some way up the road, there he was. He wasn’t walking toward the beast, instead walking the path toward her. She rushed forward and back into his arms. 

“What is it?” Geralt asked, pulling her away just enough to look her over. 

“Nothing, I’m fine, I just…” She felt a little stupid now, honestly. Geralt was clearly fine. There was a bit of blood on his clothes but it was clearly not his and it was obvious that he’d managed his job rather easily. “It’s nothing.” 

He didn’t exactly smile, but there was a brief tug at the edge of his lips before he pulled her back into a hug. “If you’d waited a little longer I would’ve been there.” She shook her head, not able to explain why that hadn’t been an option. Thankfully he seemed to understand, running a hand through her hair. 

She pulled back enough to look at him and ask, “Did you finish the job?” 

“Yeah,” He replied. She watched him open his mouth again, but the words couldn’t make it past the back of his throat. It didn’t matter. She didn’t need to hear them to understand. He’d thought -- _hoped_ \-- that killing it would bring about some sensation of normality or at least distract him for a little while. It hadn’t worked and now he was back in everything. She could see the tension in his jaw, the way the veins around his temples stood out, and knew that he would cry if he could. He couldn’t, it just wasn’t something witchers could do. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just that his tear ducts didn’t work like that. Fresh tears spilled from Yennefer’s eyes, but she was sure that this time only half of them were hers. 

“His funeral,” Geralt whispered, “He had everything planned, so apparently it’ll be tonight. We should go.” 

Yennefer nodded. “Yeah, okay.” She wasn’t really sure if she was ready to go to his funeral, but she already knew she would regret it more if she didn’t. 

She thought to offer to portal them back to town, but knew Geralt wouldn’t agree. Instead she just silently took his arm and walked beside him. They were halfway back, the sun wasn’t quite setting but it was getting deep enough in the sky that the wind had a bite to it. Then, out of season and standing untouched by the light snowfall the night before, she spotted a smattering of dandelions. Not really thinking, she let go of Geralt and picked one. It was perfect, like magic, but she didn’t think there was any involved. 

She placed the stem of the flower in her mouth and braided her hair messily. She couldn’t see what she was doing and she didn’t braid hair often -- let alone her own hair -- so it didn’t look good, but it was good enough for her to thread the stem into. Geralt came to stand beside her and she picked another flower, doing the same for his hair. He didn’t object, simply allowing her to carefully twist the white locks between her fingers. He seemed to lean into the touch, and she realised there would be some comfort in it. There was the obvious comfort she found in the bright yellow flower that had nodded on the breeze, like a colourfully clothed bard bowing to his audience, but hadn’t considered the simple comfort of fingers running through hair. 

When she was done, the two continued walking, her arm linked with his. 

They arrived in town and it was clear whatever plans Jaskier had for his funeral would be held about the fountain. There was already a bard there singing some of Jaskier’s more mournful tunes and someone had brought a painting of him which people had been laying flowers in front of. It was a sickly thought, but Yennefer still caught herself feeling strangely happy because Jaskier would have loved to have known that so many people were there to say goodbye. Also, probably, that they were spending the few extra coins to get flowers on such short notice. 

It was still late evening, when the ceremony began. Apparently, he had been cremated and his ashes would be spread “later” with no indication as to what “later” actually meant. The young girl Jaskier had spoken about briefly, a girl he’d said he’d promised his lute to, received it that night and tearfully played _Toss a Coin_. Yennefer had never heard that song sound so sad and hoped to never hear it like that again. 

Once the official part was over, people remained to talk and drink. Pretty soon she and Geralt had people surrounding them, asking them how they knew him and when it became Geralt was _that_ Geralt (as people often put it) they were practically clinging to him. He, in turn, kept one hand clinging to Yennefer. That was fine, if that’s what he needed to get through this, she was more than happy to give him that. She wasn’t about to let a crowd scare him off from his last chance to say goodbye. It wasn’t a problem for herself, a crowd never really bothered her the same way. 

People started sharing stories. They all started out sweet, but as the moon came up and the drink really started to flow, they started to run out of Jaskier’s sadder songs and tales. Soon, with the aid of some vodka, wine, and ale, the stories had grown more personal and embarrassing. There was something so particularly human about it and Yennefer remembered the vulture imagery she’d thought up earlier. It was completely smothered by stories of Jaskier getting a little too bold (also with the thanks to some ale) in a tavern and flirting with a woman in front of her husband. It took some time (and wine) before Yennefer and Geralt also started sharing stories. Like everyone else, they started out with the sweet things, the things that they thought Jaskier would want to be remembered for. 

Eventually though, Yennefer caught herself describing the time Jaskier had tried out a new mix of herbs for a bath and come out smelling like a roast. Or the time he’d pulled her into a dance and tripped on something in the unfamiliar inn room, landing flat on his ass. She hadn’t let him live that down for a week. It was strange. She had thought telling the stories he’d want her to share, the nice stories, would make her feel better. Somehow, though, it was better to talk about the other stuff. The little personal moments that had made her time with him really, genuinely fun. There was a bitterness in the knowledge she’d have no new moments like that, but there was a sweetness in telling others about them. And to hear similar things about him was comforting too. To hear strangers tell her what things had changed and what had stayed the same (his tendency to fall in love, for example, remained just as fast paced, however many implied that there was a sadness and that he’d made reference to having ‘given up’ a true love) was somewhere between heart breaking and healing. As if it opened new wounds while hearing older ones. 

It had started to snow, but no one seemed eager to go home. They had all brought large coats and started fires so they could continue drinking, eating, talking, and singing. They only seemed to sing louder the later it got. She was sure Jaskier would have been happy about that. 

It was almost midnight when someone stood on the fountain and claimed that Jaskier had asked for a countdown. There was a mixed response of knowing smiles, looks of incredulity, and -- the group Yennefer and Geralt found themselves in -- looks of curiosity. The two of them halfheartedly joined the countdown from ten, not exactly sure what to expect. When they finally reached one, there was the _bang_ of a modified canon and confetti shot into the air and the coloured parchment mixed with falling snow. It took a second for the dust to register. 

“Is that…?” She asked Geralt, not needing to specify. 

Geralt nodded, also not needing to explain what was so clear to the two of them. 

The ridiculous situation caused Yennefer to start crying again. There was also laughter, but that didn’t offset the tears freezing her cheeks. Only Jaskier would think to have his ashes mixed with confetti and shot over his own funeral. Or perhaps others would think it, but she couldn’t think of any that would actually follow through with such a ridiculous thing. She felt Geralt lean against her and put an arm around him to steady him. The two were holding each other up, somewhere between laughing and crying and both as they watched their husband’s ashes fall, mixed with snow and confetti, over the cheering, laughing, teary crowd.


End file.
